


The City of Quick Escapes

by Camcat144



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, PTSD, What Happened in Budapest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 23:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3587745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camcat144/pseuds/Camcat144
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agents Barton and Romanov are on a mission in Vienna. They end up getting picked up in Budapest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The City of Quick Escapes

**Author's Note:**

> When doing my own interpretation of the mysterious Budapest Incident' I looked back at the footage. Natasha was back-to-back with Clint. This fic is me attempting to answer the question "How could they have been back-to-back yet still 'remember Budapest very differently?"

“Agent Romanov, report in.”  
Coulson spoke calmly and clearly into the earpiece. He was surrounded by new recruits; it would do no good to look panicked. Even if his team hadn’t been heard from in an hour.  
It wasn’t uncommon. Agent to handler communications were difficult and notoriously unreliable. It wasn’t the first time Coulson had been out of contact with his agents, but it was the first time with Romanov.  
In truth, he was still sceptical about her. SHIELD was nongovernmental, sure, but non-Americans were rare. And enemies of America? Not to mention the whole brainwashing thing, or the way she refused to do anything without Barton, putting one of his best agents on hold for six months during her initiation.  
But she had been given the go by SHIELD. Coulson trusted SHIELD, so Coulson trusted her. Except now she was offline. With only one other agent. In a country that was a mere three hour flight from Russia.  
“Agent Barton, report in.”

Meanwhile, Natasha was sleeping. Or so it appeared-after all, the lovely Ms. Porter (age 36, married, rich, an easy cover) had just flown in to Vienna from Los Angeles; she would need to sleep. Natasha would just have to trust that Clint was doing his job right.  
Breathe in, breathe out.  
She could trust Clint. Clint didn’t hurt her. Clint had saved her. Clint had fought for her instead of making her fight for him. She still didn’t like not knowing what was going on though.  
Clint opened the window--five stories up, impressive for most but unremarkable for them--right on time. Well, no. Natasha frowned. He had another three minutes before he was due back, and that should’ve been through the door. She immediately stood and picked up her gun. Clint was talking.  
“I was spotted, ID’d, but I got it.”  
Excellent. They just had to make a get-away. Clint often said that this was his favorite part, like an action movie. Natasha didn’t understand enjoying the job, it simply was the job. But maybe she could learn that too? Eventually.  
She and Clint went out the door, to the room across the hall, and out that window. They started running.

It wasn’t until they sat on the hard seats on a train to Budapest that Natasha remembered she was supposed to have made a report half an hour ago. She put a hand to her ear and...nothing. Of course. The earpieces were satellite; they were underground. Which was fine, the train was too full to make a mission report anyways. She’d just have to wait until they reached Budapest. 

“Agent Romanov, report in,” Coulson paused to switch lines, “Agent Barton, report in.”  
Two hours.

Three hours.

Four hours.

Five hours. Natasha and Clint left the train. They immediately ducked into an alley and tried to get in contact with Coulson, but were met with silence. Apparently the comms were broken and they were stranded in Budapest with no way to get home. They could try and find a cell phone, but calling from an unknown number usually meant they were being held hos.  
Clint stood and said, “Time to find the embassy, then.”  
Oh yes. Their job was official, not to be kept secret from the government. She could use official channels. How odd.

Natasha was following Clint and watching for enemies on the ground--Clint was scanning the rooftops--as they passed a cute little cafe. Natasha had cleared it, but not well enough because someone stood up. Their chair scraped against the ground, and suddenly there was shooting everywhere. Just like Russia. She could handle this. Natasha grabbed Clint and ran danger-danger-danger I have no weapons and we are surrounded and Clint was yelling “‘Tash, wait!” but they couldn’t wait, people were shooting and it’s so hard to see in all this snow. She rounded a corner and drew a gun and Clint--finally recognizing the danger--stood behind her and faced the other way (he looked more concerned than scared) and they fought and shot and the buildings didn’t even look like Budapest anymore, it looked like Russia but focus on the enemy until there was nothing else to shoot at.

Eventually she came back to herself. She looked around. They were in the alley, but there were no bodies? Natasha looked at Clint, who offered her a water bottle. When had he had time to get that? He offered a small smile and said, “we should keep going.”

Right. Hostile territory. Safety at the embassy, they keep moving or they get targeted. Her senses were on alert, but she never saw any other enemy. Still, don’t relax, they might just be better at hiding than you are at seeking.

“Agent Coulson, Agent Barton has made contact.” Coulson froze. It had been six hours. He picked up the desk phone and demanded, with a growing sense of relief, “Agent Barton, repofrt.”  
“Agent Barton, reporting in,” said a familiar voice on the other end, “Mission successful. Comms disabled. Agent Romanov and I are in Budapest awaiting extraction.”

Ten hours. Agent Coulson receives two wildly different typed mission reports. It’s impossible, he muses over Barton’s, that no one had caught her PTSD. He should report this, not let her go on more missions...but she had done well. Her first instinct was to protect Clint against imaginary enemies. He couldn’t repay that by turning her in, and that would lose any trust between Natasha and himself. Coulson nodded to himself. He didn’t need to tell anyone. But honestly, it was just as well she didn’t have a gun.

**Author's Note:**

> The real question, of course, is "Which version of her name do I use?"


End file.
